


Under the Armor

by MERSCoV



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Lust, Masturbation, Shameless Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:51:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MERSCoV/pseuds/MERSCoV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ser Cauthrien has wanted him for a very long time, and there's only so many times Loghain can say "No" to someone as stubborn as she.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Armor

Loghain was sitting in a wooden chair with thin furs for cushions and resin polished along its legs. His elbow was resting on the arm rest, the whole of the object turned askew. He was facing the whole of the room with its finely crafted wares and intricately woven fabrics. Even in its lush colors of warm purples, bright reds, bold greens, he did not feel cheered. For soon was the consequential Landsmeet, and the fate of all Ferelden was in his hands. Or, well, almost. Anora had been locked away, which meant her bias could not affect the lords' decision. The Grey Warden, however, was another matter entirely. Loghain tasted bile at the thought. How could they, Orlesian sympathizers, know what was best for the nation of Ferelden?

Of course, he did not presume to think he knew what was best either, only that he knew better than a very young warrior that wasn't even allowed to hold a title or speck of land. He himself was the lesser of the two evils, and he did not care to pretend otherwise. At the very least, there were people on his side, his allies. One such ally he could not trust, even in their shared hatred of Orlesians...the _other_ , well-

She walked into the room as she always did: direct, straight to the point. She did not meander. She did not wander. She was resolute in purpose, and she was not to be swayed. However, even in the comfort of knowing her purpose so easily and without struggle, there was a downside to such absoluteness. She was as stubborn as the hills themselves, like his daughter, like his late wife, like himself. It was beautiful, in its own unbridled way. Yet, at the same time, it made declining her wishes all the more difficult.

"You are stressed, my lord." So formal, so very formal, even when fraternizing with a superior. It was against protocol, and she knew it. Not only that, but she knew that _he_ knew, and she did not care one bit. The teyrn sighed, bracing himself for today's onslaught. "My offer still stands. It will relieve tension, if little else."

"And my _answer_ still stands, Ser." He snapped and slumped in his seat. "I can't afford distractions."

Her face playing at neutrality cracked in its mask, a twitch of her lip nearly to a frown revealing just how frustrated she was. As were they _all_ , he felt. "Very well," She replied, "But what I offer isn't a distraction, but a new focus." Her fingertips brushed against the straps of her armor, and, as much as his self-control _demands_ him to stop watching, he is lost. There were few times in Mac Tir's life where his restraint was snapped in half, and fewer still that were inspired by the carnal pleasures of life. This was one such time, where years of near celibacy and increasing anger towards the political circumstances combine in one flurry of hurried desires and the intense exchange of gazes.

He opened his mouth to command her to stay, that he changed his mind. That he wanted her, after all, but she had gone. Ser Cauthrien may have been stubborn as the hills, but she did not push where unwanted. Perhaps that was why she kept the offer ever-open, should he decide it was worth the trouble. And, Maker, did he think it would be worth the trouble. But it wasn't right, he kept having to remind himself. She was under his authority, his command, and he would not abuse that.

The age difference didn't exactly help either. 

Did he even stand a chance, with those longing glances and lingering gazes? She was a contradiction of the most pleasantly infuriating sorts: beautiful yet rugged, deadly yet vulnerable, loyal yet defiant. There was no simple word to sum up her whole, and he was not about to try once more to think of one. Not when he was considering the curves that surely lay underneath her heavy, heavy armor. If she had stayed, undid the buckles of her straps for him, he would have caressed those curves, sent her keening and writhing before him. Or, perhaps, they would have collided, quick to start and quick to finish, just wanting their own relief.

Loghain wanted to believe he would take his time, drag his fingers along every inch of her skin in search of weak spots in the armor she wore _underneath_ the armor of the guard. Everyone knew she hid behind her blunt, graceless mannerisms, protecting herself with the very essence of honesty. He wanted to see her entirely vulnerable for once in her life - their life. It was years since their respective lives had ever been their own rather than shared with one another. There was no Ser Cauthrien without Teyrn Loghain, and neither would have it any other way.

 _Any other way_ , the echo of it felt mocking, merciless in its displaying of his own weakness. He would certainly have her _another_ way, in many ways if his imagination were so gifted. The constraints of his armor suddenly felt like too much. He was practically cooking inside his own damn chainmail. If Maric could see him now, Loghain swear he'd laugh, maybe be disappointed even. Whatever was going through his mind, he was being ridiculous, thinking of things that could never be.

That did not mean he ignored his urges entirely, however.

He got up to lock the doors first. Loghain hadn't done this in a very long time, but he still knew the rules as well as anyone else. Even as he removed the armor, he did so with care, meticulously loosening the straps before freeing himself - one piece of heavy, shiny metal at a time. Finally, he took off his smalls, an impatient groan rumbling within him. He wanted to get this over with, to hurry up and live on with his farce of a life before he had to pay the ultimate price. But there was a louder part of him that wanted nothing more than to let this last, to have thoughts of the brunette well into nighttime and daytime once more. It was not clear which one won out until he mumbled out a half-hearted prayer. Maker help him.

His hand's grip was too rigid at first, odd in its handling, feeling almost unfamiliar. Had it truly been so long? No matter, he soon found a decent rhythm, and that was all that mattered. That and the image of Cauthrien undressing for him, smiling at him, kissing him, throwing herself onto his lap. Was she even the sort to sit in laps? Would she rather he sit in hers? _Someone_ surely would have been in the other's lap, and they would have clutched at one another, just so full of each other that they wanted nothing else. 

His breathing turned rough and heavy, its urgency just bordering on pathetic but only just. He was no longer a young steed, it seemed, but that did not mean he took any less pleasure in his ministrations, whether imagined or real. Speaking of imaginary, he wondered if she was experienced with such matters, if she'd be surprised if he were to slide his hand down between her legs and- He gasped at the thought of her moaning, yelling his name as he felt her need on his calloused fingers. He made for a devoted husband, but he was sure he was no less determined a lover either.

Loghain quickened the once steady pace of his hand, the head on his shoulders tilting back to collide with the edge of the backrest. He mouthed her name or "Maker" or "Forgive me" many, many times, but very little noises left his lips besides the audible shudder and moan.

Half of him was aching for her, and the other half was relieved his subordinate did not have to see him in such a state. He was falling apart at the seams, all for the sake of a girl with will like iron and heart like gold. Even as he wanted nothing more to pin her against the wall and have his way with her, he wanted to prove to himself that he was stronger than that, that he could withstand such temptation without giving in like a starving man to poisoned berries.

He was stronger than that, or, perhaps as this little adventure was to prove, he was _not_. True strength was not settling for quiet solitude, but he clung to the idea all the same. Even as he knew of her inner strength and the might in her sword's strikes, he had not ever the pleasure of finding out whether she was thicker with obvious biceps and toned calves or whether her muscle was of a leaner, more subtle kind. Perhaps she would use it to his advantage, pinning him down underneath and riding him home. Maybe she would instead melt underneath him, relishing being loved slowly and carefully. The mere thought of such a debate did something to him, desire raging through his veins like an angry hoard charging into certain death. 

Oh Maker, it did not take much to excite him so, did it? Really, it was a miracle in of itself that she admired him in such a way. He was a story and a song to her, a promise of patriotic freedom and glory, and yet he had turned out to mean so much more than that. He did not deserve to be the object of want for someone with so much potential. He would only ruin her with his bitter regrets and age-old concerns. He was a relic of the past, and she an artifact of the future. He was but destined to watch as she grew into her own prowess and take control of her life, as he slowly faded out of it.

It was with that melancholy reflection that he worked toward a release, one borne out of half-relief and half-dread. He came hard and with as much a mess as one would expect of someone who'd restrained himself for so long. He steadied his breathing and look on over the aftermath, guilt making the relief of it bittersweet. Despite calming down, he still felt frustrated. He was sitting in a wooden chair, too hard and rough against his bare skin, even with the fur cushioning, with his mood no near improved.


End file.
